Once Upon A Time
by AKAAkira
Summary: Having never met Keima, Shiori must now save her precious library from collapse, with her only weapons being her wits, an incompetent nurse, and the very stories Shiori holds dear.
1. Summary

**Summary: **Having never met Keima, Shiori must now save her precious library from collapse, with her only weapons being her wits, an incompetent nurse, and the very stories Shiori holds dear.

Takes place in an AU, as the summary suggests.

_**Quick note: For people who might've read this before, there's nothing new, I'm just breaking up the sections to chapters because I couldn't stand the long page anymore. Sorry for the false alert.**_

**_A/N Inspired by GitahMutton's project, for which I give thanks._  
**

**Disclaimer: The World God Only Knows is owned by Tamiki Wakaki, and the Harry Potter franchise is owned by J.K. Rowling (and I'm sure that the excerpt use was unavoidable for a full experience). I own absolutely nothing in relation to these works, except for the plot of this particular story.**

**Furthermore, the cover of this fanfic has been created entirely by me via , except for a small portion originally drawn by Tamiki Wakiki. Fair use rationale: the image is used to indirectly promote the original work; the image is a low-quality, conservative and insubstantial sampling; I do not harm the profit gained from the original work.**

* * *

_Once Upon A Time_

* * *

"_That place that does contain / My books, the best companions, is to me / A glorious court, where hourly I converse / With the old sages and philosophers; / And sometimes, for variety, I confer / With kings and emperors, and weigh their counsels; / Calling their victories, if unjustly got, / Unto a strict account, and, in my fancy, / Deface their ill-placed statues."_

— Beaumont and Fletcher, The Elder Brother, Act I, scene 2, line 177.

* * *

Once upon a time, in Maijima Academy's library, there lived a mute girl.

If only the mute girl could converse more confidently, the one thing that she would say about herself is that she loved the library. The library is her home, her temple, her sanctuary, her realm. It is in the library of three trillion words – and she would know, she's read every single one – that this girl can use her gifts like no other. If there were any literacy awards to come from simply reading, this mute girl would win them all.

Had the rest of her life remained in this pleasant state, we could already close this story on a well-deserved "and they all lived happily ever after". Alas, that was not the case. You see, the books that built up the library were being torn out, one by one. Never before had anyone tried to attack the bricks of my faithful palace, but when it all changed, it was due to a recent meeting between the members of the library committee, which included me – um – included the mute girl.

It was not a glorious tale at all. The head of the library committee and the antagonist, Dolores Umbridge – an unpleasant witch, and as cruel and moronic as her namesake – gave the suggestion of starting a section to rent out CDs and DVDs in our library. Which, to our protagonist, would've been fine, except Umbridge's next sentence was constructed from the phrases "make room", "remove", and "books".

I – er – the mute girl would've cursed the old hag's miserable brain to Pluto and back three times over, if only I – _the mute girl_, I mean – hadn't been struggling over picking _which_ words to use. The cost of this indecision was dear; the motion had been approved by everyone _except_ the person to which it mattered the most. And so, it was decreed that a media room will be created, choked full of digital entertainment, while its future resting place was to be cleared of books, some to be…discarded…if necessary.

At first, I – t-to rephrase, at first, I – sigh. Yes, _I_'m the mute girl, yes, I exaggerated, I'm not really mute, and _yes_, I want to treat this as _third person story_ so that you'd laugh at a pitiful _character_ and not a pitiful _person_, _**okay**_? Please get on with my story!

…At first…I resignedly complied. I will miss those books, but most of them were given to other libraries, some of them donated to book stores, and only those remaining were really sent to the landfill. Too many, still…but I held on and hoped. The media room idea was too expensive, and it took far too many liberties; sooner or later, I thought, the idea would be scrapped, the library will be full of books again, and my serene life could continue the way it always had.

Maybe that delusion was why it stung so much, when Umbridge finally told me the school board's verdict. It was certainly the reason I had ultimately snapped.


	2. Characters

"_There must be a reason why some people can afford to live well. They must have worked for it. I only feel angry when I see waste. When I see people throwing away things we could use."_

— Mother Teresa (1910–1997), _A Gift for God_, 1975

* * *

**Notice of Book Removal from Maijima Academy Library**

**By the date of XX/XX/XXXX, the following books are to be removed from the shelves and placed in the discard bin for the construction of the media room.**

**1. ISBN 0-439-98818-7, Ha…**

I stopped there.

Not that I had been absorbing the information very well; the few passes I've made over the paper were all numb, all full of the desperate disbelief that I've never associated with the consoling feel of paper before. All I could comprehend was the header, the title of the first book, and the final number in the list – which reached somewhere into the four hundreds.

Four. _Hundred_. _**Books**_.

Tears – _angry_ tears – were streaming down my face as I cursed technology with venom I didn't know I had. Noisy printers, clanking away when people studied; unrestricted computers, its social networking detracting from research time; and the absurd CDs and DVDs that were invading _my_ library. I viciously smushed the notice into a ball, squeezing it so small that I almost, _almost_, believed it would pop into nonexistence and never trouble me again.

Except, when I opened my palms, it was still resting there. Its presence was real, fierce, and scathing, like an angry Hippogriff that was snarling at me. I flinched, my gaze lowering.

Absurd. I had a staring match with paper, and I _lost_.

ISBN 0-439-98818-7.

More tears sprung out of my eyes, the fourth time today.

The first time happened as I woke up that morning, knowing that the notice will arrive on this date, and the second time was when I actually read this accursed message. The third time had been first period, in the middle of class, which was why I was sent here, the medical office.

At the opposite side of the room was a nurse. She was a foreign exchange student; her nametag first spelled in Katakana, then in English, "L. Smart". She was the type of character that you remembered only because her name was so ironic. Unusually, she also stood out because her brand-name earphones – Skullcandy, I think? – flashed as they wailed horrible pop music into her ears. The closest I could come to describing the song was a robotic voice screaming "DORODORODORO" like an alarm.

The disruptive type. Had the latest of the accursed technology. Incompatible with a library. Overall, an obnoxious secondary character.

I immediately disliked her.

She scribbled into her clipboard while she chewed gum and muttered, "Name…Shiomiya Shiori…bio…eennh, skip." _Pop!_ "No irregular swelling… No signs of injury… No known allergies…uh…what else causes crying?" _Pop! _"Fever?" _Pop!_ "No fever…obvious emotional turmoil…prognosis? What's…ugh…skip." _Pop! _"Where's the 'Cause' section? Should have a 'Cause' section, doesn't it? Oh, whatever… Cause is…mm…lack of a boyfriend, I think?"

I scowled. I will never have any idea what caused her to land on that conclusion. My one true love is the library, thank you very much. Real life boys were of no interest to me; I would much rather fall in love with someone intelligent, courageous, and fictional, like Harry Potter-san.

ISBN 0-439-98818-7.

I quivered.

Hurriedly I buried my face into my sleeve; I didn't want Smart-sensei to see. I reached a shaky hand into the schoolbag at my side, knocking aside my diary, instead grasping a fresh paperback book.

I had hoped it would give me some sense of comfort, but the cover was too cold. It felt like the very novel was repulsed by my contact, despite what I was doing – what I did for it.

The book fell back into the bag.

ISBN 0-439-98818-7.

A new round of sobs burst out of me. This time, it wasn't anger.

"You okay, Shiomiya?" the nurse called.

No. Of course not.

ISBN 0-439-98818-7.

Anger changed into something entirely different.

ISBN 0-439-98818-7.

**Guilt.**

I stole a book from the library. _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_, reprint, English edition. Scholastic. The most popular and widely read book in the world. One of the very few foreign-language novels we had.

ISBN: 0-439-98818-7.

It was a stupid move. It was rash, it was reckless, it was all of the synonyms of "idiotic" that you could pluck out of a dictionary! And even that wouldn't cover the full extent of what I've done!

…Yes…it had been a completely mindless action. As soon as I had read the notice, my mind went on autopilot; foreign section, letter "Ro", tenth book in the fiction row, and I had taken it out, deactivated the transmitter, and placed it into my schoolbag. It didn't even occur to me to _sign_ it out until first period.

Then again, I didn't want to. People who abandon books had no right to own them.

And it was _tearing me up inside_, because I knew that I had just as little right to take it.

Books…were many things. They were stories. They were knowledge, ideas, concepts, conflicts, ideals, beings, friends, and family. They were the dawn, the dusk, the field, the mountains, the trees, the seeds, the sky, and the Earth. They were magic.

Books were so many things, they may as well be gods. They were so omnipotent in their wealth of wisdom. Yet, as a librarian, I knew better than most – they still needed the _faith_ of not only me, but that of many others to survive. (Otherwise publishers abandon a fanbase-poor title.)

Sometimes I was jealous, but I rationalized. Such sharing was only a minor disappointment to me, not a fatal flaw; the books themselves would be overjoyed to be gracing so many. Besides, most of the people I encounter desperately needed supplementary education.

"What the heck is _this_ word? Ps-ps-psychy-iogloal – what?"

Including the adults, apparently. I wondered if the school had been lacking staff and had to promote the janitors to keep positions filled.

Yet, she was a better person than me by far. She lived her life exactly as she wanted to. I had confusing ideals that I couldn't fulfill and ended up breaking altogether by lifting just one thin, paperback book.

I couldn't even decide whether I should keep the book or return it. If I kept the book, it'll never see any other face again; I would effectively kill its purpose in life. If I returned the book, it'll be discarded; I would still violate its reason for existing.

Life was too _confusing_! _How_ did the adults _do_ this?

"Ps-psy-psy-sio-logical – okay, calm down. P-S-Y-S-I-O-L-O – wait a minute. Argh, I need a dictionary!"

She mixed "psychological" and "physiological" together. I was about to correct her; then I realized that would be rude of me. A student had no place to tell off a teacher – but then again, if I couldn't correct this now, she might keep repeating the mistake – no, no she won't, she's already getting a dictionary to clarify her confusion – but wait, where was she even going to get a dictionary in this room? Maybe I should tell her, just in case.

"Y-you mean –"

Whatever I was about to suggest, I lost it entirely when I found Smart-sensei's face closer than expected. I squeaked and darted back.

She looked at me oddly before saying, "Yup, find common ground. That's the first step of all relationships! …Or at least, that's what the textbook says."

"I –" I stuttered, and then withdrew, bewildered.

"Come on, Shiomiya, follow me here! I have to give you some counselling, or so my form says." She waved a hand, and then I noticed there was an iPhone on the bed that had a thesaurus entry open on "psychological therapy".

Accursed technology.

"So I'm just trying to give you some relationship advice. If you wanna hook up with a hottie –" The woman giggled like a high school girl, before continuing, "First, meet your target and give him a _big_ impression of you! Second, just talk with him! It helps if you have anything in common – life goals, preferences, even the latest news. Then once you get talking – uh – wait wait, please don't cry!"

A bit late for that. I sunk back, depressed.

That was my other problem. I could never respond timely enough for anyone's satisfaction. Books were clever; they never paced me. Other people? They either quickly lose interest or quickly move on.

And I did it again. Just when I thought – when I thought I could respond to her, I slipped up. Like every other time.

In first grade, an unrelated conversation led a classmate to ask me if I was a ghost. It was so childish and so immature, my mouth couldn't deny it immediately. Then someone else queried whether I was dead or not. While my answer still stuck to my throat, a game of 20-Q-with-a-broken-button commenced – "Can you go through stuff?" "Do you take over people?" "Have you flown over the school?" I had only one real option – a big, fat "No" – yet I couldn't properly articulate that one answer during the entire interrogation. Forget one-trick pony – I was a no-trick pony, with my sole answer to everything being silence. It didn't take long for people to consider me stupid.

Then there was grade six. Out of the blue, a teacher asked me to take over a presentation because I had the best langage grades. It was for something scholarly – the influence of English on the Japanese dictionary, or something similar. She apparently failed to notice that the number of times I spoke in a year amounted to the occurrence rate of a student being caught cross-dressing within school grounds. The time my classmates spent not laughing was equally minimal.

As was the number of friends I was left with.

Some people called it stage fright. A minority might call it a _langlock_. I call it "I can't talk, period". So it should've been no surprise when I couldn't convey an answer to the nurse, despite how many responses I should be able churn out in a second.

"Eyaagh, dang it. Come on, Shiomiya, tell me if there's something wrong! I can't treat you if I don't know that!"

My possible responses were, "There's nothing wrong, I'm just having a perfectly bad day", or "What treatment? I'm surprised you even qualify as a nurse". Which dialogue was better in this context? Maybe both of them were too cutting –

"Seriously, why aren't you talking? Cat got your tongue or something?"

My possible responses were, "Perhaps you can wait until I actually speak", or "Don't bother talking if you're going to answer your own question". Still, maybe they were too direct – did my character really call for extensive –

Smart-sensei threw up her arms. "Screw it! I'll just call it a nervous breakdown. Get outta here, Shiomiya, I'll check back on you later."

My possible responses were, "Do that first and you could've saved a lot of trouble!" or "Can you actually do house calls? I saw the number on your scale when I came in".

I chose the wisest answer and walked out without a word.

I'm not usually this mean, I decided. I just had a tiring day. Anyone would be, if they found out that their home was having its walls torn down, being exposed to the raucous exterior. It didn't help that I voided my right to be concerned with the library when I turned kleptomaniac.

My problem was, I still didn't know what to do. If I had been any better of a speaker, I would've murdered this idea as soon as it was conceived, and every time afterwards that it had been raised. If I had friends, I would get them to help me do – something, I don't know, argue for me, fight for me, take my side!

But it had happened, so I had to deal with it. Neither the local libraries nor the local bookstores were willing to take every book. I thought about keeping all the books for myself, but my room was already out of space (which begged the question of why I even stole _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone _in the first place). I wondered if people were willing to take free books – but I had no guarantee that they would ever open them, which went against my whole reason for saving them.

Maybe there was still a way to stop the media room? Probably not. At this late stage, the only person who could pause the process would be the person who petitioned it – the chairperson of the library committee, Dolores Umbridge. Yet, how would I ever convince her? She was the key player for saving the library, but we will never see eye to eye. She was just evil to the core.

Briefly I considered vandalism – setting the media room on fire, for example – but I didn't have it in me. I couldn't put my books in danger.

I had nothing. My peaceful library was going to be shattered.

And I had no way to stop it.

The hallway back to my classroom had wide windows that gave a spectacular view of the milieu outside. In the middle of it rested the beautiful library. I touched the window as if I could hold the library in my hands, but the sensation of coldness killed that illusion. I was trapped behind this screen, cursed to watch while Umbridge and her cronies ran amuck. The future of the bright books weighed heavily in my mind, but I couldn't save them; I could only avert my gaze, and hope it'll feel less painful than it did now.

Then the poster caught my attention.

It was an advertisement for the resident idol, Kanon Nakagawa. Its sickeningly pink colouration proclaimed that a small concert will be held today, at lunch, on the roof. No tickets required; bring your own refreshments.

Kanon Nakagawa was a bubbly girl. She was very pretty, and her eyes were dazzling, though I wasn't sure how much of the picture was digitally altered. Her mouth was open, singing silent lyrics into her resplendent microphone, which was probably connected to speakers everywhere. It was, no doubt, going to be cacophonously noisy. And it was likely going to fuel her career to the other side of the moon – the career that was built on songs and CDs.

Another weapon of the media room.

…Accursed…**technology**!

_RIIIIP!_

I didn't even realize what I had done until I started crying again. The majority of the poster was held in my hands, not looking so lively anymore, while the remainder was taped on the wall, just as limp. I was breathing heavily; with some surprise, I realized I enjoyed spiting her. Emotions gurgled inside me as I silently cursed the so-called idol with as many words that I could think up of, all the while ripping her poster repeatedly in half.

_Rip!_ That was for invading this school!

_Rip!_ That was for singing so obstreperously!

_Rip!_ That was for sponsoring CDs!

_Rip!_ And that was because **I felt like it**!

I let go, and the entire thing scattered onto the floor.

It was only then that I realized how ironic it was. I was part of the library committee – I was supposed to be _respectable_! In a single day, I committed both theft and vandalism – that was grounds for a suspension. My chance of saving the library had drained entirely.

This…this wasn't how it was supposed to go. Plot-analysis 101; conflicts lasted the entire duration of the book, popping up and dying down as necessary, yet in the end the core problem was solved in a concise manner.

But there was nothing simple about this; it felt like I had too many troubles at once! How was I supposed to fix _all_ of them? Was it even possible in the first place, with what little I had been gifted?

I couldn't see the ending at all!

Morosely, I glanced back to the destroyed poster, bitterness renewed. Idols had it easy. They had a microphone to talk into, and that gets an entire world to their beck and call.

…And that…

…Was when I got an inspiration.

And the more I thought about it, the more I thought it could work. It was a gamble – no, it was a downright hazard – but it wasn't impossible. It was also outrageous and extravagant, but…

I glanced back into my schoolbag, where the library's copy of _Harry Potter_ waited, eager to be read again. I glanced at the floor, where the multiple pieces of paper lay, waiting to slip anybody stupid enough to bullet down the hall.

…Having done two scandalous things in one day, a third probably wouldn't make a difference.


	3. Plot

_"Trouble rather the tiger in his lair than the sage amongst his books. For to you the Kingdoms and their armies are things mighty and enduring, but to him they are but toys of the moment, to be overturned by the flicking of a finger."_

— Gordon R. Dickson, _The Tactics of Mistake_

* * *

Hijacking Kanon Nakagawa's mini-stage was surprisingly easy. An anonymous phone call to her manager about a bomb threat whisked her away faster than one could say "Citron", and figuring out how the equipment worked wasn't too arduous.

Facing a crowd of people was infinitely more overwhelming.

My extemporization was badly conceived enough to require standing on the stage, so I could clearly see every face present. Some of them looked confused. "Where's Kanon?" they seemed to chorus, and the worst part was, their collective curiosity felt like punches to the gut. I couldn't even begin to guess who said it, when they said it, or if they even said it at all; all I knew was that their voices were terrifying enough to put Lord Voldemort to shame. And this was from the people who weren't even angry yet.

The rest of the audience was mad. In the back of my mind, I probably knew the reason why, but right now I was too focused on trying to breathe evenly. I was sweating more than I had in my entire life, and the tiny microphone in my hands was literally being shaken hard enough that I could hear a wobbly melody from the speakers. Apparently someone disliked my rendition of "Scared to Death in A minor", as evidenced by a thrown can of pop that missed me by millimetres. I didn't dare look at anyone in the face; I knew I would break down the instant I tried.

I knew the consequences of this. In both books and in the newspapers, there were too many cases of an angry crowd collectively lynching the unfortunate victim. If I performed badly, I was seriously risking my life.

My problem was, how should I start?

I could greet the audience, I suppose. It would hopefully calm them down. But then again – they were waiting for Kanon. If _I_, the nobody, was the one who said hello, that might incense them further. On second thought, they should be reasonable people, they'd listen to what I want to say – no, I was forgetting that crowd psychology was complex. Maybe a greeting isn't –

Somebody shouted, "Get a move on!"

I was startled. I reverted my attention – and then blanched at the time on a nearby clock. Six minutes. It was already _six minutes_ after Kanon's scheduled start, and I had gone no further in my quest than a snail on morphine. This was unbelievably terrible – every second that I wasted exponentially furthered the chance that the crowd will disregard me. I – I had to say something, _fast_!

Unfortunately, that was easier thought than said or done. I opened my mouth, closed them, wet my lips, and opened them again. Nothing.

The crowd's mutterings became louder.

Nothing. I couldn't have nothing. I had to – to say something, anything. Good, bad, excellent, terrible, something! Time was wasting! A – I don't know, a greeting –

"H-h-hello…"

The very force of the boos blasting from the crowd knocked me back. I tripped over my own poorly-placed bag, spilling its contents everyone, as I crashed into the floor of the stage. The noise turned into jeers, and I winced as something crashed against my head. A pop can. A full one. Someone didn't miss this time.

I was decidedly terrified.

People began dispersing. At first, it was just a few males here and there, but all too soon large chunks of the crowd split off, thinning the main body as inevitably as leprechaun gold disappearing. I wanted to scream at them, but I had too many questions I couldn't figure out. What to scream? When to scream? Who to scream to? The answers eluded me.

How did I want to explain myself, anyways? All I could remember was that it involved a book. But which book? I was too scared to remember. And I was too frightened to care.

I had nothing to go on but my blind luck. Nothing to use but my books scattered on the stage.

One of which included _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_.

For an odd reason, this setup seemed familiar. Seemed almost cliché, except it had not yet become trite. Slowly, my fear and trepidation turned into curiosity and intrigue, and I picked it up. The book felt comfortable in my hands.

A few of the students was almost at the door, the door that led downstairs, underneath the roof of the school. If they reached that point, it was all over. I wouldn't get another chance to convince them.

I opened the book and blurted out the first thing that jumped out at my eyes.

"MOTORBIKES DON'T FLY!"

The crowd stopped.

I couldn't help it – I gasped. My eyes flickered around a little, suddenly scared that they were lying, but everyone was doing the same thing.

Unbelievable. The crowd was actually paying attention – to _me_. To the mute girl, who could never recite a response to save her sorry life. They all had their mouths open, like they were about to simultaneously bite into a _yakisoba_ omelet and froze in the action. I had no idea what they were amazed at – that my voice could be that loud, even though I missed speaking into the microphone? That I translated the book from English to Japanese so fluently, so naturally? The ridiculous statement, itself? Or even the fact I was able to choose a response at all?

…No. This time, the latter shouldn't be a surprise at all. For I was reading out of a book, and books were god. There was no way I could go wrong by faithfully reading the word choices presented by these divine beings.

Was this…something…I should've realized earlier?

It was only when the muttering grew loud enough to drown out my thoughts that I realized I've been stalling for a few, precious minutes. Hastily I looked down at the page – was this – no – I moved back a few paragraphs – yes, that spot looked nice. I began reading again.

"_Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_. Chapter 2: The Vanishing Glass. E-excerpt.

"The problem was, strange things often happened around Harry and it was just no good telling the Dursleys he didn't make them happen."

The translation rolled out of my tongue smoothly, even though the language wasn't my native one. I had the marvel at the process; did I always have this capability? Of course, I wasn't in a position to know before…

Luckily I remembered the crowd again. I read on.

"Once, Petunia-oba-san, tired of Harry coming back from the barber's looking as though he hadn't been at all, had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and cut his hair so short he was almost blad except for his fringe, which she left 'to hide that horrible scar'. Dudley had laughed himself silly at Harry, who spent a sleepless night imagining school the next day, where he was already laughed at for his baggy clothes and sellotaped glasses. Next morning, however, he had got up to find his hair exactly as it had been before Petunia-oba-san had sheared it off. He had been given a week in his cupboard for this, even though he had tried to explain that he _couldn't_ explain how it had grown back so quickly."

I steeled myself, and took a quick glance into the audience. To my immense relief, no one was reacting disapprovingly – in fact, most people even looked interested in this Harry-san, a teenage boy with a cruel family and mutant hair. Some people were even outright grinning, as if they knew what I was reading out of.

My heart skipped a beat.

"Another time, Petunia-oba-san had been trying to force him into a revolting old jumper of Dudley's (brown with orange bobbles). The harder she tried to pull it over his head, the smaller it seemed to become, until finally it might have fitted a glove puppet, but certainly wouldn't fit Harry. Aunt Petunia had decided it must have shrunk in the wash and, to his great relief, Harry wasn't punished."

I heard snickers. Someone even whispered, "That girl, she's _good_."

Girl? They weren't talking about Harry-san, so they were referring to…me? I didn't write this, though, J.K. Rowling-san did…

…Or were they referring to my reading?

"On the other hand, he'd got into terrible trouble for being found on the roof of the school kitchens. Dudley's gang had been chasing him as usual when, as much to Harry's surprise as anyone else's, there he was sitting on the chimney. The Dursleys had received a very angry letter from Harry's headmistress telling them Harry had been climbing school buildings. But all he'd tried to do (as he shouted at Vernon-oji-san through the locked door of his cupboard) was jump behind the big bins outside the kitchen doors. Harry supposed that the wind must have caught him in mid-jump."

I didn't think it was possible, but my voice sounded even more confident that it had at the beginning. I was right. A book…all I needed was a book, and I really could speak.

This was…this was working. Even better than I thought. At this rate…I didn't need my original plan!

"But today, nothing was going to go wrong. It was even worth being with Dudley and Piers to be spending the day somewhere that wasn't school, his cupboard or Figgs-san's cabbage smelling living-room."

The crowd murmured its curiosity. They were hooked! I took a deep breath, then continued –

Or, I would have, if I didn't suddenly snap the book shut. This wasn't getting me very far. People were interested. People were listening to me for the first time. And that was a victory in so, _so_ many heartwarming ways.

But this wasn't what I came here for – and if I didn't use this opportunity now, they might be gone before I got to my _real_ message!

"D-di…d-d-d-did you…like…the b-b-b-b-book?" I felt relieved; I thought I got out the message fine, in comparison to my usual attempts.

Then I heard a few murmurs of "What?" Too quiet. I had to try again.

I swallowed nervously. "D-did you…l-l-l-like the book?" Good; I still made no mistakes in pronunciation.

This time, they got it. Many of them nodded their heads, and one even yelled out, "Heck yeah! Read more!"

I whimpered. Hard part. Follow the script, follow the…now-nonexistent…okay, calm down. I took a deep breath again, and squeezed out two words.

"…Y-y-you…can't."

"WHAT?"

The sudden, collective comment was ear-shattering, blowing me back a few feet. If I hadn't already tripped over my bag, I would've done so again. Bewildered, I could only stand as the complaints were hurled at me:

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Come on, get to the next section!"

"Get to the flying motorcycles!"

"Speak up, speak up! Louder!"

Again. Again, I was terrified to speechlessness. They were still not fully angry, but their eyes bored into me like sharp paper cuts. There...there must be something I could say. Something I could read. Something I could quote, and hurl back at the audience, a perfect response worded by Rowling-san that could simultaneously quell and entrance them!

But all I could do was stare at the small, shaking book in my hands, and I couldn't think beyond that there was nothing in this book that could help me now. It had served its purpose; I had to do the rest.

I couldn't. I held no book. I had no weapons.

And I would've been lost right there, perhaps more so when the ball of paper that had rolled out of my backpack was accidentally kicked into the audience. From the corner of my eyes, I saw one of the girls picked it up quietly, smoothed it over, and read it, frowning. She turned to whisper to a friend. At the time, I didn't think it would have much of an effect; all I tried to think about was a way to get the crowd's favour back, try to get them aware of the library's situation, try to get some angle to speak against the chairperson, and…well, I couldn't think of much more beyond that then, now could I?

Ironic thought, now that I think about it.

Still, it was only the gradual crescendo that roused me from another time-consuming "stage fright", growing slowly aware that something was a little different. It was only when I paid attention to the crowd's whispers that I realized how behind I was:

"The media room? It got approved?"

"That's good, isn't it?"

"Darn, I need to pay attention to the newsletters."

"They're doing _what_?"

"Nice, we really got a media room?"

"But they're planning to toss three hundred books?"

"I didn't hear anything about that…"

"So that's why Shiomiya was so upset."

"That's such a stupid move."

"What are you talking about?"

"Yeah, movies and music, remember?"

"We can finally get –"

"A media room in a library? Seriously?"

"Couldn't make a lab, huh?"

"Idiot! No teacher will bother us at the library!"

"Still, three hundred books…"

"What's up with that?"

"That's a hundred thousand yen. At least."

"…Good point."

"The DVDs are worth way more."

"And tossing out a hundred grand helps _how_?"

"That's true…"

"I don't go to the library much…but even I can tell that's not good…"

"What a waste of money…"

"The library's supposed to protect books, isn't it?"

"Those are things we might need someday, too."

"I didn't know you were into research."

"All the better to have easy resources."

"It's not just us…"

"Future students might need them, too."

"Getting old, grandma?"

"Did you even see the list?"

"The first book's the same one Shiomiya was reading."

"Seriously? They're going to trash _that_?"

"Those books are definitely worth keeping."

"And how would be do that?"

"Stop the media room."

"Then the books won't need to be tossed."

"But can we stop it?"

"When was it approved?"

"How would we do it?"

"Think Shiomiya knows?"

And suddenly the crowd was silent, everyone looking at me expectantly.

I was stunned. I spent approximately six pages' worth of narrative angsting over the fate of my library, and suddenly the solution fell into my lap?

Crowd psychology…it was complex. But looking at the faces turned on me…it was all too easy to believe their eagerness, their willingness to co-operate. It was easy to fantasize that I was Neville-san, secretly leading Dumbledore-san's Army to libration of freedom. It was easy to conclude that with these numbers, not even Dolores Umbridge could say no to anything we asked. I've done more than try my best at saving the library.

I was succeeding!

…Except –

"_Shiomiya!_ _WHAT ARE YOU DOING?_"

I choked.

Okay. Let's settle this quickly. I might have given another lie. The library committee chairwoman's name wasn't Dolores Umbridge. In my defense, I thought it was very fitting. And for the record, her real name was Fujiidera-san.

The same person currently climbing onto the stage, looking very, very, furious.

"_What are you trying to pull?_ We decided on the media room _weeks_ ago! So WHY are you trying to SABOTAGING this?"

I decided I wanted to hide. Unfortunately, that was the problem with a mini-stage; no trapdoors. I was left to bake alone underneath the sun that was Fujiidera-san.

"Shiomiya, answer me! What are you trying to GET by protesting against the media room? We already talked about this – we unanimously agreed on it! The media room _will_ be built into the library, and it's going to _stay_!"

Oh no. Oh no oh no ohnoohnoohno. A debate. The one thing I would never win at. A debate means to have a conversation between two or more sides bringing into factor logical points related to the subject until one side ran out of words to say. Which is exactly why I was terrible; I had no words to begin with.

"Hey, woman!" someone rudely shouted. "Is it true the media room's been approved?"

"It's been more than approved, it's ready to be set up! We're starting _tomorrow_!"

"Whoa! That' quick!"

"Then what's the point of trying to stop it?"

"Seems more costly to stop it, now…"

"But wait!" someone else cried. "What about the books? I heard they were being tossed just so –"

"Do you people even know what 'tossed' means?" Fujiidera-san retorted. "It's not literal! Some really are discarded, but the majority are donated to charities, bookstores, individuals, or to other libraries! It's a very small percentage that's actually lost!"

"Didn't know that."

"So…it's not a waste?"

"But what about our research material?" a girl called. "And what if there're people who really need the books that were tossed?"

"Then I suggest you look in the Internet! Or actually, you know, _use_ the media room and use the e-books!"

"Derp."

"We had that one coming, haha."

"Whose bright idea was it that those books were important?"

"No point now arguing, huh?"

And just like that, the union was destroyed. With only a few well-placed counterarguments, Fujiidera-san had eliminated all traces of my resistance. A few students had even started leaving, apparently finding no more value with the proceedings. And this time, I couldn't find the words to stop them.

I was on my own again.

Fujiidera-san emphasized this further by turning on me, looking mad. "Do you have anything to say for yourself, Shiomiya?" she asked dangerously.

For a very peculiar reason, my mouth set itself into a hard line.

The chairperson startled, apparently taken aback. I, myself, was surprised at my subconscious boldness. I've never done something like that before. I've never been so aggressive before.

I've never been so…_mad_ before.

But I was. Twice already, I had a chance to speak out loud, and made a complete fool out of myself. It was only blind luck – grabbing the right book, kicking the notice into the crowd – that prevented me from getting ejected from the stage. Twice where I had almost failed.

One way or another, _I won't let there be a third_.

It helped that I finally remembered what I wanted to do. So with more grim confidence than I was used to, I reached back into my school bag, searched around for a bit, found it, and pulled it out.

My diary –

No. Not a diary. A book. A diary was personal. A book was god. And this was certainly a book.

_All About Me_.

I opened the book, and to my surprise, it was on the exact entry that I had written just this morning, as I pretended to recover in the nurse's office. Even more surprisingly, and with a hint of wonder, I found the words to be at the tip of my tongue, like they were made to be read out. That never happened to my words before – and the only other time I felt something like this was when I read out of _Harry Potter_ earlier.

When I read out of books…no surprise then.

"_The library is her home, her temple, her sanctuary, her realm. It is in the library of three trillion words – and she would know, she's read every single one – that this girl can use her gifts like no other._"

The crowd froze.

I had to wonder – how many of you had lost a home? How many of you had learned how painful it was, to see their house crumble onto the ground piece by piece? How many of you lived each day with a heavy weight on your shoulder that could crush you any time it pleased?

Only I, I was betting. And that's why I had to tell them. I had to tell them about a place so wonderful, its destruction would send goddesses crying for years. I had to tell them about the swaying moods, the uncertain days, and the gloomy emotions that came to you when you thought you couldn't fight anymore.

I had to tell them…a story.

"Once upon a time, in Maijima Academy's library, there lived a mute girl.

"If only the mute girl could converse more confidently, the one thing that she would say about herself is that she loved the library. The library is her home, her temple, her sanctuary, her realm. It is in the library of three trillion words – and she would know, she's read every single one – that this girl can use her gifts like no other. If there were any literacy awards to come from simply reading, this mute girl would win them all."

I paused here. The whispers had started up again.

"What's she…"

"A story about the library?"

"Seems kinda boring…"

"Not when she reads it."

"Yeah, that's intense."

My breathing hitched. It was working. Just like _Harry Potter_. It was getting their attention. I was getting my feelings to them. I was teaching them…about my home!

I continued, introducing the conflict. "Had the rest of her life remained in this pleasant state, we could already close this story on a well-deserved 'and they all lived happily ever after'. Alas, that was not the case. You see, the books that built up the library were being torn out, one by one. Never before had anyone tried to attack the bricks of my faithful palace –"

The crowd wasn't dumb.

"'My'?"

"Wait, what happened to the mute girl?"

"Hang on…"

I slipped. That should've been a 'she'. But just once…no problem. I continued. "– but when it all changed, it was due to a recent meeting between the members of the library committee, which included me – um – included the mute girl."

"The library committee?"

"This is getting familiar…"

"There it is again…'me'."

No. No, no, no. This was supposed to be third-person. In third-person the audience sees the character as fictional. I had to make them see fictional. I can't let them associate it to me and my problems.

I had to tell a "story"!

I _will_ tell a "story"!

"It was not a glorious tale at all. The head of the library committee and the antagonist, Dolores Umbridge – an unpleasant witch, and as cruel and moronic as her namesa –"

I choked, clapped my hands over my mouth, and _blushed_.

Tell me I didn't just insult the chairperson in front of at least hundred people. Tell me I didn't just destroy whatever chance I had at convincing Fujiidera-san. Tell me I could redo that moment again.

The crowd didn't help:

"A witch, huh?"

"That took _guts_. Nice!"

"So that's how she thought."

That's not helping! Be quiet before Fujiidera-san…oh…

Fully prepared to drop the F-bomb, I resigned myself for the worst and faced the chairperson.

Surprisingly, she looked far more stunned than insulted. Her eyes were wide, but not angry anymore. Her mouth was open for a few moments, framing words as silent as my own had been during our council meetings. Finally, she managed a question.

"Dolores Umbridge…from _Harry Potter_?"

Bewildered, I could only nod meekly, and hope she wouldn't explode at me.

Yet, suddenly…she started laughing. It was only chuckling at first; I had just enough time to observe how out of character she was, and was about to ask some query I didn't form thoroughly, before she started cackling with mirth that must've been bottled up in her for her entire life. She was doubled over slightly, her hands at her stomach as if they actually hurt, while her gleeful noise clamour rang around the otherwise-silent roof with an infectious edge.

For a few moments, I could think of nothing. Then a strange thought struck my mind: had _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_ even been released in Japanese theatres yet?

And suddenly I saw her in a whole new light.

The crowd was perplexed, and muttering restlessly. They probably didn't understand what in the world happened. Still, I beamed at them; without their help, I would not have gotten as far as I did. Whether they knew it or not, they were the turning point of my story, the catalyst that brought the climax through to its stimulating end.

I knew exactly what to say. I turned to the last page of _All About Me_ – to my last words, that I had directed at the book when I concluded my entry.

I bowed to the audience. "Thank you for listening."

They still didn't know what had occurred. But crowd psychology was complex. So when one person started clapping, suddenly someone else did, then someone else, then someone else again, and then everyone was clapping and cheering and whistling loudly. Through the majestic din I really thought I accomplished something magnificent.

And I had.


	4. Themes

"_Peace at home, peace in the world."_

— Mustafa Kemal Atatürk ; the motto of the Republic of Turkey

* * *

Fujiidera-san and I managed a compromise the next day. It was simple, really; she gave me a printed page with a list of recommended movies, marking some as her favourites, while I told her, _"All that Mankind has done, thought, gained or been it is lying as in magic preservation in the pages of Books. They are the chosen possession of men"_ and gave her one of the more obscure books in the library and the source of the quote – a Japanese translation of _Heroes and Hero Worship_ by Thomas Carlyle-san. In other words, Fujiidera-san revoked the notice to toss more books and I helped make room for the media room. No harm in having both, right? And it worked out fine in the end, so no one could complain.

The library was fuller these days. I don't know if it had been my botched attempt at public speaking or the novelty of the new media room, but suddenly the library was so filled that we had to take on extra volunteers to keep the entire place supervised. Yet, it lost none of the previous peace and quiet; at my desk, it was still as comforting and serene as it always had been. As if nothing changed. And nothing really had.

Only the day following, I caught sight of a surprise – Smart-sensei, seated at a desk, reading over a textbook on law enforcement. (I didn't know she had such a serious interest!) She was reading it over carefully, like she wanted me to believe she was paying full attention to it. Her earphones were euphorically quiet.

I smiled widely. I was glad I thought of this situation beforehand.

I approached her quietly, but she must've heard me because she looked up, her face looking a little startled. I brought out my book and, without pausing, started reading off of a prepared entry:

"Smart-sensei, thank you so much for your kind words on that day you cared for me. They gave me the courage and the inspiration that I needed for a personal battle of mine. I have succeeded, and am left with a debt I will do my best to repay." The next section read "I hope you will enjoy the library", so I quickly amended to, "I hope you e-enjoyed the library and its collection of books. It is the fruits of my labour, and I find no greater happiness than to see others benefit from it."

Half-nervously, and half-cheekily, I grinned and added, "And if you ever need someone to listen to your boyfriend troubles, I will always be available. Once again, sensei, thank you."

Smart-sensei had an astonished expression on her face. She slowly took out one of her silent earbuds, and shook it slightly, as if she thought it might be malfunctioning. (I guess the lack of my speech incapacity must've shocked her.) Finally, she managed, "Y-you're welcome, Shiomiya. Take care, alright?"

I bowed, and then retreated. Hmm, I need to work on my parting scripts…

There was only one issue I had left. I still hadn't apologized to Nakagawa-san for the, ah, liberation of her stage. Of course, that would be awkward no matter how I went about it. I wasn't even sure if Nakagawa-san was now aware there hadn't been bomb threat…I hope I haven't damaged her career. This was going to be slightly tricky to make up for…

Well, I decided, one thing at a time. Right now, I had a book that I needed to return which I should pay my respects to, as apologies for kidnapping it from its home. And there was really only one way to pay respects to a book.

I settled down on my chair, opened _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_ to the first page, and started to read.

**FIN**


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